


Add Us to the Canceled Sum

by theroadgoeson



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern times, No sex though, but there's also a shower scene, serial killer au, sorry - Freeform, there's a kind of noncon kiss, trigger warning abuse, trigger warning alcoholism, trigger warning suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroadgoeson/pseuds/theroadgoeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is a serial killer who began his career with the murder of his abusive, alcoholic father. He then tore a path of murders around France, killing men who looked just like his father-- blonde hair, blue eyes-- and reenacting his fathers abuses on them. When he abducts Enjolras from a college campus and begins his cruel crucible, Enjolras' strength and persistence wins him over while his own life gains Enj's sympathy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> So like I said trigger warning for suicide, abuse, and alcoholism. Major angst to come, my friends. Hope you enjoy, though, nonetheless.
> 
> (also this does take place in France, so if I do decide to use any French, I'll put a translation at the end of the chapter)

The teenager, a boy only fifteen, grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the shelf and snuck a few swallows. The amber liquid scorched down his throat and he relished a pain caused by his own choices and not his father's. Already, he felt the lift in his stomach; his thin and malnourished body did not afford him much tolerance.  
He walked, stumbling only once, to the living room where his father waited. The man lay sprawled on the armchair and watched the news, uninterested. He turned when Grantaire came over to the chair and looked up at his son; he held up his empty tumbler wordlessly. Grantaire shook his long black hair into his eyes to avoid eye contact as he quietly poured the drink.

He turned to walk away and get drunk himself, but with his eyes down, he ran into the couch. He stumbled and the liquor in his hands spilled all over the couch. His father stood immediately and grabbed his wrists to turn him around. Grantaire maintained a firm grip on the bottle as his father threw his glass across the room, shattering it.

He threw Grantaire's wrists aside and went for his throat, strangling him as he shoved him against a wall. His gripped tightened and Grantaire struggled for breath. "You piece of shit," his father yelled. "You can't even pour a fucking glass of whiskey without screwing it up, can you?!"

Still maintaining a grip on Grantaire's neck, he punched him. Grantaire could feel his nose break as his father threw him to the ground. The bottle he held broke as his hand hit the floor. Only a shard, about five inches long, remained in his hand. His father had turned his back and was walking away. Grantaire stumbled to his feet, blood pumping rage rapidly through his veins, and quickly ran to his father. He wrapped a thin but strong arm around his neck and pulled back as he stabbed the shard through his rib cage.

Grantaire leaned his head on his father's shoulder, his mouth near his ear, and said, as the life left his father's eyes, "I can do this without screwing up."

He pulled the shard out of his father's back and threw the lifeless corpse to the floor at his feet. He wiped a bit of blood from his mouth and walked away.


	2. Ten Years Later

     Grantaire took a slow pull from the whiskey bottle in his hand, draining it in one gulp. He stumbled to the man chained to the wall in his basement. He took the man's chin in his hand, the days of torture and captivity had caused a good amount of blond stubble to form. Grantaire forced the man to look at him, his blonde hair falling into his blue eyes that looked so much like his father's.

  
Blood was caked in the man's hair and his eyes were dead though blood still pumped in his veins, but not for much longer. Grantaire released his chin and brushed a hand almost lovingly down his cheek. His eyes darkened menacingly as he smashed the empty bottle on the man's shoulder. The blonde cried out in pain. Grantaire grabbed a fistful of golden hair and pulled backwards. He tightened his grip on the shard of glass in his hand and brought it, swiftly and strongly, across the man's neck. Blood spilled over his hands, red like the wine he was saving upstairs for this moment.

  
Grantaire shook his hands of excess blood and grabbed the corpse's face in his hands and placed a kiss upon its forehead before throwing it aside with a dull crash to the concrete floor. He walked up the basement stairs and opened the door with bloodstained hands ( _must clean that later_ ). He walked down the hallway, arms lolling at his sides. The blood dripped from his hands and onto the hardwood floor ( _goddamnit, I thought I got most of it off. Fuck it_ ). He trailed his hand down the wall as he walked, leaving five bloody streaks on the cream-colored surface. ( _I always did like red. Maybe I'll repaint soon._ )

  
He entered the small kitchen which he kept very clean-- for someone who just murdered a man-- and grabbed the bottle of wine and the single glass he laid out beforehand. He poured himself some wine, his fingers leaving red fingerprints on the glass, and walked over to his couch. He took a heady swallow of wine then turned on the TV.

  
"Man still missing," said the news anchor while a picture of the meatsack lying in Grantaire's basement flashed on screen.

  
( _Man found dead_.)

  
"Jean-Pierre Mirabelle was taken from his place of employment ten days ago."

  
( _So that was his name. Probably should have asked_.)

  
"Much of public believes that this is the work of the Skoll Murderer."

  
( _At least they picked a good name_.)

  
"We can assure you that there has been no evidence to come to such a conclusion. We ask that you all remain calm, there is no need to panic."

  
( _Wait a day or two. Whenever I can get this shithead out of my house._ )

  
Grantaire drained the last of the wine in his glass and grabbed the bottle as he walked to his bathroom. He set down the bottle on the counter as he stripped down. He turned the water on high and stepped in the shower. He watched as the blood travelled down his pale skin in rivulets, coloring the water rose and dripping off of him to continue down the drain. He tilted his head back and let the water wash the sweat from his face. He stepped out of the direct stream and smoothed back his raven hair-- everyone told him he took after his mother.

  
His mother was the whole reason he was currently scrubbing blood off his arms and chest. His father, blonde haired and blue eyed, exact opposite of his mother, had murdered her in cold blood. He didn't mean to even if he did intend to hurt her. In the middle of one of his abuse sessions, he hit too hard and the dark-haired beauty fell down the stairs and fell the wrong way. Grantaire could still hear the sickening crack of her neck.

  
His father felt no guilt as he called the police, pretending to be frantic, telling them there was an accident, that his wife had fallen down the stairs, that she didn't turn on the light and _Jesus Christ she's not breathing_. When he got off the phone he bashed Grantaire, then only ten years old, on the head with it and told him he "better not tell the fucking police what happened or he'll 'have an accident' as well."

  
Grantaire, of course, obeyed. From then on, what his father did to his wife on a daily basis, he would now do to Grantaire. He wouldn't let him go to the grocery store to buy food, so Grantaire scavenged what he could from garbage cans and stealing other kids' lunchboxes as they walked to school.

  
His father would go to bars every night and come home plastered. He would beat Grantaire mercilessly until he passed out from pain. He would wake up the next morning and take three times the recommended dose of aspirin and avoid his father for as long as he could, which was never for long.

  
When he was fifteen and finally killed the man who had tormented both him and his mothers for years, he felt such a sense of freedom he believed only slaves had known after escaping. He ran away, continued to make his living on the street until he looked eighteen and forged a high school diploma and references for his resume and got a stable job and a home, far away in the countryside. Yet all the while, he continued murdering.

  
Grantaire forged a trail of unsolved kidnappings and murders around the French countryside, always keeping his victims blonde-haired and blue-eyed like his father. He never stayed in one place for long as a boy, moving quickly and efficiently, dumping the bodies by the cover of night and leaving the next morning. The authorities had different names for him wherever he went, never connecting the cross-country killings together to form the long chain they really were. From his small home situated on four acres with no neighbours, he could do whatever he pleased so long as he ensured his victims were unconnected and taken from far different places.

  
He chose his victims carefully, made sure they looked enough like his father so he could feel that high of freedom when the life left their eyes. But he not only killed for freedom, his revenge against his father could be taken only once, it had been ten years of violent reenactments and he still felt as though his mother and his own past had not been avenged.  
He thought of her now as he scrubbed down his body in the refreshing burn of the stream of hot water. The blood continued to run down the drain as he scratched at his face.

  
When the water ran clear, he turned off the shower head and stepped out into the steam filled room. He dried and wrapped the towel around his waist. He grabbed his bottle of wine and walked to the bedroom. He got into bed, not bothering to dress, and finished his wine before falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, the shower scene (though brief) was because I wanted a legitimate excuse to look up shirtless George Blagden pictures. Don't judge me.
> 
> Also I decided on the name Skoll Murderer after the Norse myth of the wolf who ate the sun at Ragnarok. I thought it was fitting for the story.


	3. One Month Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month after his last victim, Grantaire searches for a new one on a Parisian campus, and the new man's persistence already begins to win Grantaire's admiration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation for French at the end.

     A month after his last victim ( _Jean-Pierre whatshisname_ ), Grantaire is at an old college campus in Paris. The grounds are deserted, save one man walking home late from working in the campus café. It has almost midnight and Grantaire had been keeping an eye on him all day, listened to his conversations, knew what path he would take home that night and when he would walk it. He now was at his van, parked conveniently right where the blonde man would pass. The back of the van was opened and Grantaire put on a show of struggling to lift a coffee table into it.

  
     Right as the man was within ear shot, Grantaire made the table slip from his grasp and began swearing at it. The man stopped and turned to look at Grantaire, just as Grantaire looked up to see the man. He ran over to him and said, “ _Pardon_ *, but could you please help me with this table? Normally my roommate would help, but seeing as he’s the one that kicked me out.”

  
     The man took a moments pause before saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.” He shrugged off his messenger bag and dropped it outside the van before helping Grantaire lift it up into the trunk. When they were both standing crouched in the van, Grantaire clandestinely grabbed a crowbar hidden in the corner and hid it behind his back.  
He held out a hand for the blonde man. “Thanks for the help.”

  
     “Sure, anyti--” He was cut off by Grantaire swinging the crowbar around and knocking him out with one blow. The man hit the floor with a soft thud.

  
     Grantaire hopped out of the van and saw the man’s bag lying on the ground. ( _Why not have a little fun_ ). He took out a notebook and a pen from the bag and wrote “ _Bonsoir, mon ami.* -- Skoll_.” He signed the name given him, figured he should at least be courteous and take away the guesswork for the police, and in any case, he always did like a little mischief. He tore out the paper, his sleeve covering his hand so as not to leave prints; he used his sleeve again to wipe the pen of prints and bent over to stab the paper into the earth with the pen. It wasn’t windy, it should stay until morning.  
He replaced the notebook in the bag and threw it into the back of the van and shut the doors. He climbed into the front and drove away.

 

     It was a three hour drive back to his house, and he drove the way peacefully, taking occasional sips from the flask he kept in the glove department. The road was quiet and dark and he felt content to know that no one suspected him of kidnapping the man in his trunk.

  
     About thirty minutes before they arrived at Grantaire’s house, the blonde man awoke and began banging on the walls of the van. Grantaire could hear the muffled protests and occasional swearing through the thin metal barrier between him and his victim. He sighed, taking a swig from his flask, and pulled over on a dirt road.

  
     Grantaire hopped out of the drivers seat and began banging a rhythmic, mocking beat on the van, slow and loud. The man inside continued his relentless protests. Grantaire stopped his banging and yelled, “Strong-willed. I like that. Keep it up and you might live longer than I was going to give you.”

  
     The man stopped when Grantaire spoke and replied, “You’re a sick piece of shit, you know,” punctuated with another bang against the van.

  
     “I’ve been told that my entire life,” Grantaire yelled, “Do you really think you saying it will affect me?” He got back in the driver’s seat.

  
     He drove the rest of the way home with nothing but silence coming from the back. He figured the man gave up his protestations, but would probably try to do something when he opened the back. When Grantaire pulled into his garage, he turned off the car and waited a moment before going to open the van.

  
     He walked quietly to the back and quickly opened the doors. The man was surprised at the timing, but he still lunged at Grantaire. Grantaire, prepared however, quickly grabbed onto the mans neck and squeezed. He shoved the man against the door jamb and held him there until he passed out again.

  
     Grantaire hoisted the man on his shoulder and carried him inside and to the basement. There he chained him to the blood stained wall: a chain around his neck and one for each wrist with a chain going opposite ways into the floor. He propped the man upright against the wall, as comfortable a position as could be afforded in such a situation. He walked up the stairs and turned off the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon: Sorry/Excuse me
> 
> Bonsoir, mon ami: Goodnight, my friend.


	4. The Next Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantiare, in a good mood, decides to have a chat with his new victim.

    Grantaire woke early the next day with a blazing headache. Most mornings he woke up with a blazing headache. He reached over to his nightstand where he kept a bottle of aspirin. He took two out and dry swallowed them.  
He rose and walked loudly to the kitchen, his hangover not helping him. He poured some coffee grounds into a filter and set up the coffee maker. He poured himself a bowl of cereal and began eating. When the coffee maker turned off, he poured himself a glass and made it Irish.

  
     Grantaire sat at the table eating and thought of the man in his basement. In his long list of victims, he thought, this one was certainly the prettiest. He was also the one who looked most like his father. He thought then of how the man struggled and fought; Grantaire saw in him a fighting spirit, one that wouldn’t die (At least not until I snuff it out).

  
     He finished his food and dumped the bowl and mug in the sink. He walked to his bedroom again and fished out a sketch pad and some pencils from the bottom of a drawer. Grantaire had quite a penchant for drawing but had not practiced his art in a long while; inspiration just never seemed to find him anymore, but he decided he could at least try with the man passed out in his basement.

  
     He walked quietly downstairs, so as not to wake the man. He turned on the light and the man only stirred briefly, but did not wake. Grantaire sat against the wall opposite him and set the sketch pad on his lap and began to draw. The lines flowed smoothly and the shading was dark and drastic, but beautiful. He sat there for two hours drawing the still form of the man, with his dark blonde hair falling in his face and still wearing the red sweater from the night before.

  
     When Grantaire completed the drawing he set down the pad on the floor. He walked upstairs and to the kitchen. He took out all the ingredients needed to make pancakes from the pantry and began mixing the batter ( _The thing doesn’t look like he’s eaten in days and I’m feeling in a good mood_ ). He placed a griddle on the stove and made four pancakes. He took them off and placed them on a plate and covered them in butter and syrup. He then grabbed a pitcher and filled it with water and on his way down to the basement he stopped by the linen closet and grabbed a towel.

  
     Grantaire walked down to the basement again. He set the plate of food next to his drawing. He took the pitcher of water and threw it on the man, shocking him awake. The man jerked up and immediately began pulling on the chains that bound him.

  
     “You slimy bastard!” he yelled, still rattling the chains.

  
     Grantaire crouched down beside him and started drying his face with the towel. The man stilled at the touch, but kept an angry glare focused on his captor. “Shh,” Grantaire said under his breath, “I just wanted to wake you.”  
“You couldn’t wake me up like a normal person?”

  
     “No, I’m already being nice enough,” Grantaire replied, gesturing towards the food. He heard the man’s stomach grumble. “I knew you’d be hungry. When was the last time you ate?”

  
     “A pear, yesterday morning,” the man answered as Grantaire finished toweling him dry.

  
     “I bet you were walking home to the idea of a lovely microwave dinner when I picked you up last night.” The man only growled in response. “Anyway, here’s some food,” he said, handing the plate to the man and holding out a fork. The man did not grab either of the things offered him. “Don’t worry it’s not poisoned or anything,” Grantaire said kindly, taking a bite himself to prove the point. The man waited a moment before grudgingly accepting and quickly digging in. “If you want coffee, I can bring you some.”

  
     The man, instead of answering the question asked, “Why are you being so nice?”

  
     “You’re a fighter. I like that. I don’t like it when it’s too easy,” Grantaire said honestly. “And is that a yes or no on the coffee.”

 

     “A no.”

  
     “Suit yourself,” Grantaire shrugged. “By the way, what’s your name? I didn’t ask my last one and I figured I should find these things out.”

  
     “Enjolras. And how many men like me have you picked up and fed pancakes to?”

  
     “Enjolras,” Grantaire said, testing the name and pointedly ignoring the question. Enjolras sat the plate down by his side. “Did you enjoy them?” Enjolras grunted in reply. “You know you live longer if you talk.”

  
     “Yes,” Enjolras said begrudgingly.

  
     “You know, while you were asleep I drew you,” Grantaire said, handing the drawing to Enjolras.

  
     The blonde took a quick look at his likeness and handed it back to Grantaire. “It’s lovely,” he said, only out of obligation, although it was a fantastic drawing he was still immensely bothered by the fact that not only had the man across from him kidnapped him but he also drew him, _while he slept_ no less.

  
     “Thank you,” Grantaire said, taking back the sketch pad. “I used to be quite the artist a few years back. In fact that’s how I made most of my money before I found a proper job.”

  
     “You could find a proper job? How does a man like you do that?” Enjolras asked with spite in his voice.

  
     Grantaire paid the sass no mind when he replied, “A man like me finds a job by pretending to not be a man like me. I saw you worked on the campus, at that little coffee shop… what’s it called?”

 

     “La Café Musain.”

  
     “Yes. La Café Musain. I saw you worked there, anyway, but I--”

  
     “Did you follow me around all day,” Enjolras interrupted.

  
     Grantaire punished him with a swift slap to the face, but none of his anger showed in his voice when he answered, “Yes. I did. As I was saying: I didn’t catch you major. You’re obviously a student.”

  
     “Political science,” he replied, rubbing his face where a bright red hand mark had appeared.

  
     “Bet you wanted to become president one day, have a nice political career then retire to a mansion in the countryside,” Grantaire said, a life of cynicism showing clearly in his voice.

  
     “No,” Enjolras spit back. “I want to make a difference. I want to help the people who don’t have a voice.”

  
     Grantaire scoffed. “ _Un ami de l’abaissés_ *. I knew a lot of those, but did they ever help me?”

  
     “Obviously not,” Enjolras replied.

  
     Grantaire stood and kicked him in the stomach, hard. Enjolras curled up in a ball and started coughing and clutching his abdomen in pain. Grantaire picked up the plate and his sketch pad before turning off the light and walking upstairs. When he reached the top, he could still hear Enjolras hacking and slammed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un ami de l’abaissés: A friend of the poor.
> 
> (Do you like how I threw in the pun behind Les Amis de L'ABC? Do ya? *nods head* you do. Or you should *death glare*)


	5. That Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is black out drunk and things will not go well.

Grantaire was black out drunk.  The empty bottles of liquor surrounded him in his living room.  It was a surprise he hadn’t died of alcohol poisoning yet.  He gripped the bottle he was holding in his hands a bit tighter as he took a swallow, letting the amber liquid burn his throat.  He stood shakily and began to walk with unsteady step towards the basement door.

He opened the door and half fell, half walked down the stairs, where he turned on the light.  Enjolras blinked rapidly at the sudden light and his eyes widened when he realized the state his captor was in.  Grantaire leaned drunkenly against the wall opposite Enjolras.

 

“How drunk are you?” Enjolras asked, fear and anxiety causing his voice to shake.

 

In lieu of answering the blonde, Grantaire stumbled forward and punched him square in the face.  The liquor did not cloud his strength, and Enjolras could tell.  “You don’t get to ask questions, _bouc_.*”

 

Grantaire took another drink of whiskey and set his bottle down on the small table in the corner.  He turned back to Enjolras and grabbed the blonde’s face in his hands.  He dug his short fingernails into the man’s cheeks until he drew blood and scratched down as Enjolras screamed in pain.  He slapped Enjolras and the strike hurt worse for the bloody lines drawn on his face.

 

Grantaire picked up the bottle again and took another drink.  He walked back to Enjolras, who was trying in vain to stop his face bleeding by pressing his hands against his cheeks.  Grantaire began to kick him in the stomach yelling, “You’re a piece of shit! You’re why I’m here, _tu es le motif_ *! You killed my mother! You killed your wife! You killed _me_ , goddamn it!  You’re a deadbeat alcoholic who’s only reason for living is to beat the living shit out of your son!”  Grantaire kicked Enjolras with each syllable until the blonde was hacking and coughing on the floor.  Eventually Enjolras threw up from the pain, blood mixing with vomit.

 

Enjolras gasped for breath as Grantaire chugged from the bottle.  Eventually, the blonde looked up, hate filling his eyes.  “You’re the piece of shit, and always will be,” he spat.

 

Grantaire smashed the bottle on the blonde’s head.  The remaining alcohol spilt down and into the not-yet-clotted scratches in his face and he cried out in agony.  Grantaire grabbed his chin and forced the man to look at him.  Grantaire’s eyes were bloodshot from alcohol; Enjolras’ from pain.  “ _Mon père, tu as tort_.*”

 

Grantaire released Enjolras’ chin and walked up the stairs.  He turned off the light and said, “ _Bonsoir, salaud_.*”  He closed the door with a resounding slam.

 

When Grantaire was gone, Enjolras finally let himself cry and whimper in agony.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bouc: goat (as in scapegoat)  
> tu es le motif: you are the reason  
> mon pere, tu as tort: father, you are wrong  
> bonsoir, salaud: goodnight, bastard.
> 
> In case it wasn't clear, when Grantaire is as drunk as he was, he hallucinates that his victims are actually his father.
> 
> (The amount of joy writing torture gave me is probably very very unhealthy)


	6. The Next Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire cares for Enjolras after his night of abuses.

Grantaire walked downstairs, using the light of his phone to guide him. He didn’t want to turn on the light, figured it would make whatever headache Enjolras was sure to have hurt. He held six aspirin in his palm and a glass of water.

He walked up to the heap that was Enjolras, still curled in a ball and clutching his abdomen. Grantaire crouched down next to him and set down his phone face up, shedding minimal light on their scene. He set down the glass of water next to it. He gently nudged Enjolras on the shoulder, waiting for him to stir awake. When the blonde did, he immediately scooted as far away as his chains would allow him, fear clouding his eyes.

“Don’t be like that,” Grantaire cooed. “I’m not here to hurt you again. I just brought some pain killers.” He showed Enjolras the six tablets held in his palm. Enjolras hesitated to accept and rapidly glanced from the tablets to Grantaire’s face and back again. “Don’t worry, they’re not poisoned. As I’m sure you learned from last night, poison won’t be the way I’ll kill you.” He extended his hand further and Enjolras gratefully accepted and shoved them in his mouth. Grantaire handed him the water, which he took as well. “Tell me if you need more, okay. I would normally just take six, but I don’t know what your body will be like.”

Grantaire glanced over at the pool of vomit still off to the side. “I’ll get a mop for that. Do you want the light on or off? I wasn’t sure if you would have a headache or not.”

Enjolras took a sharp intake of breath at the obvious concern of his captor, but answered anyway, his voice shaking almost imperceptibly, “Off. Please.”

Grantaire nodded and left his phone just out of Enjolras’ reach as he walked upstairs to grab the mop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been just a short interlude. I didn't actually plan this, I just wanted a little bit of Grantaire caring for a flighty Enjolras. Excuse my psychotic mind.
> 
> Also, my tumblr (dayofthenerd) on the off chance you want to read my occasional poems (at least half of them are fandom related).


	7. Two Days Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has something to show Enjolras

Grantaire sat on the couch, a bottle of liquor once again held loosely in his hand. He was watching the news. He never quite understood why he liked it so much, seeing as he could never believe any of the bullshit he saw, but sometimes he liked to think that it was so he could see and remotely participate in things he could never be a part of.

  
“Twenty-three year old college student Enjolras Acord is still missing,” Grantaire heard the reporter say. He jerked up and rushed downstairs where Enjolras was staring blankly at the wall opposite him. Grantaire grabbed handcuffs from a corner and fastened them around the blonde’s wrists then released the chains binding him.

  
“Wha-- What are you doing?” Enjolras asked, fear clouding his voice, but a small bit of hope seeping through.

 

“I want you to see something,” Grantaire huffed as he dragged his victim up the stairs.

  
Enjolras blinked at the amount of light Grantaire allowed in his house ( _no one loves the light like a blind man_ ). He staggered along with Grantaire and coughed at the amount of empty bottles littering the living room, remember the last time Grantaire was drunk. He briefly noted that the news was playing before Grantaire dragged him down onto the couch, maintaining a firm grip on his wrists. Grantaire turned up the TV where the report was showing.

  
“Enjolras was taken around midnight from his college campus four days ago on his way home from work. A note was left at the crime scene reading, ‘ _Bonsoir, mon ami_ ,’ and signed from the Skoll Murderer.”

  
“So it was you. I guessed as much,” Enjolras said under his breath.

  
“Knew you were a smart one,” Grantaire said, taking a drink of liquor.

  
“We do not know if Enjolras is still alive.” The report cut to the view of a man with light brown hair and glasses crying silently on a couch.

  
“Combeferre…” Enjolras whispered, his face twisting in despair.

  
“I don’t know if you’ve already killed him,” Combeferre said, eyes down, “I don’t know what you’re doing to him or what you have planned for him, but please,” he glanced up to look at the camera, “please if he’s still alive, let him go. He has so much ahead of him. He makes a difference in peoples lives,” pictures of Enjolras at protests, passionately orating flashed on screen, “He’s going to change the world, I know it. I don’t know why you’re doing this, whoever you are. I don’t know why you picked Enjolras, but please, show mercy. We can find you help for whatever you’re suffering.” ( _There is no cure, except death_ ). “Please, we just want him back.”

  
Grantaire turned to look at Enjolras and saw a single tear running down his face. He raised his hand and wiped it off with his thumb. He let his hand rest against Enjolras’ cheekbone, they were hollow from four days of captivity and had large clotted lines from abuse. Enjolras didn’t move at the touch, Grantaire doubted he even noticed it, he simply stared at the TV, his eyes dead for the first time since his capture.

  
“You’re beautiful, you know,” Grantaire said, “when you’re fighting for something you believe in.” Images of Enjolras at his protests flashed before his eyes.

  
“Thank you,” Enjolras said thickly, blinking back more tears.

  
Grantaire handed him the bottle of whiskey. Enjolras accepted it greedily and gulped down a large amount before shakily handing it back. Grantaire slowly nodded and took a swallow himself. “Who was he?” Grantaire asked quietly.

  
“Combeferre. He’s my-- He’s my second-in-command, if you will,” Enjolras said with a sad smile. “He helped me organize every single one of my protests. We’ve been best friends since were five.”

  
Grantaire nodded again before he stood and held a hand out for Enjolras to support himself on before shakily standing. He led the blonde back down to the basement. He chained him up again, and Enjolras put up no protest. Grantaire laid a tender hand over Enjolras’ after he was done. He walked solemnly up the stairs and turned off the light. Before he could shut the door he heard Enjolras meekly say, “Why did you show me that?”

  
Although he could not see him, Grantaire knew Enjolras was looking up at him. “Because I wanted you to have a chance to say goodbye.”

  
Grantaire turned and shut the door softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: So I have been informed through comments, that the Les Amis all go by their last names. I always had my suspicions of this (but was always too lazy to confirm), but I also have always felt as though going by your last name was a very odd thing to do in a modern relationship such as the ones I'm (and others) are trying to portray in modern AUs, so I decide to simply make their last names their first names and rechristen them with a new last name.
> 
> Because no last name was ever given to Enjolras, I took the liberty and deemed him Acord which means "bold edge." I felt it fitting.
> 
> I have the headcannon that Combeferre is secretly in love with Enjolras. I'm probably the biggest unrequited Combeferre/Enjolras shipper out there.
> 
> The quote "No one loves the light like a blind man" was taken straight from the brick and the quote "There is no cure, except death" was taken from a letter David Berkowitz (AKA The Son of Sam) sent to the police before he was apprehended.


	8. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is in another good mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is a bit OOC, but I just didn't know how to force it back into character. Tell me what you think.

Grantaire woke groggily. He turned to look at the clock on his bedside: 10:30 AM. His day normally started at two. He threw his pillow at the floor and got up, knowing there was no point in trying to go back to sleep.

He walked quietly to the kitchen, making Irish coffee as per his usual routine. He normally skipped over meals, but, like the first day of his captive’s residence in his home, he was in a good mood, so he got up and started making breakfast for them both. He made bacon and pancakes for them both and took his own portion aside. 

He ate quietly, flipping through an old sketchbook. He paused to remember the story behind each drawing. When he reached the last one, the drawing of a chained Enjolras, he sighed. The drawing didn’t feel right; he couldn’t place it.

He took Enjolras’ portion of the food and put it on a plate. He walked down to the basement and turned on the light. Enjolras stirred slightly in his sleep. He immediately perked up at the scent of food.

“You sleep a lot for someone in captivity,” Grantaire said, handing him the plate.

“It’s not like there’s anything else to do,” the blonde said, devouring the food.

“What if I killed you in your sleep?”

“Better way to go than any,” Enjolras said, holding out an empty plate, “and in any case it doesn’t seem like the way you’d go about it.”

Grantaire moved to grab the plate, but noticed that his victim’s eyes were red and swollen and that there were clean lines through the dirt on his face. He grabbed the plate and set it down, moving almost immediately to cradle Enjolras’ face in his hands. “You’ve been crying,” he stated, softly.

Enjolras stilled at the touch, but relaxed quickly, knowing his captor would not hurt him now. “Yes, after what you showed my, it was hard to stop,” he said, closing his eyes.

Grantaire was startled by the blatant trust Enjolras showed him. He quickly released the man’s face and startled back to his place against the wall opposite the blonde. “I am sorry, but it’s for the better, I think,” Grantaire said truthfully. Enjolras nodded in response. “What was that protest for? The one they showed in the clip,” Grantaire asked.

“Lowering tax rates on the poor. I told you, all I want to do is make a difference,” Enjolras said, looking Grantaire in the eye.

“Did it work?” Grantaire asked pointedly.

“Yes,” Enjolras said proudly. Grantaire raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Though not as much as we wanted it to,” Enjolras added.

Grantaire huffed in agreement. “Nothing ever changes.”

“But it will.” Grantaire looked up, prepared for an argument, but Enjolras just continued passionately, “Later on there will be another protest, and the tax rates will go down a little, and then another protest, and another reduction. It will add up. Nothing happens all at once, we know that. We just change whatever we can. Eventually it will get better. I know it.”

Grantaire stood transfixed. “You’re beautiful you know, when you’re talking about something you believe in.” Enjolras balked at the statement; Grantaire ignored him. “Hold on, I’m going to grab something.”

Grantaire walked upstairs and grabbed the sketchbook, still on the table. He hurried back to the basement, where a very confused Enjolras sat unmoving. Grantaire passed the sketchbook to Enjolras. “This is my story,” he said. “Everything since I left home is in there.”

Enjolras thumbed through the pages, trying to decipher the meaning behind each one. There was a dark alley way, shaded harshly with what appeared to be charcoal. He concluded from the inexperience of the art that this was where Grantaire first stayed when he ran away. When he asked, the man confirmed. Later on there was a still life of a table covered with pill bottles and empty drinks. The shaky lines showed that it was drawn not long after those bottles were all emptied.

Grantaire watched Enjolras look through the book, trying to decipher the emotions in his eyes. His eyebrows were knitted together and the corners of his mouth turned down in a frown. Enjolras turned another page to see a quick sketch of a bridge over what appeared to be the Seine. The lines of the drawing were lighter, there was less heavy shading, it looked like it had been drawn while Grantaire was in one of these good moods that resulted in Enjolras viewing the drawing in the first place.

“Why is this one in here?” he asked, “It looks so happy compared to the others.”

Grantaire scooted to Enjolras’ side to see the work he was referring to. He smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth barely turning up, but his voice revealed the happiness of the memory. “That was five years after I ran away. That was the last day I was homeless. I had finally found the money to get a cheap little apartment and the very next morning I was going to move in. I stayed the night in an alley way just next to that bridge. That was the first night of my life I fell asleep smiling.”

Enjolras didn’t reply, but Grantaire wasn’t angry. He could see that the blonde was no longer frowning, even if he wasn’t smiling.

Grantaire stood and grabbed the plate from the floor. He walked up the stairs, leaving the light on and Enjolras with the sketchbook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention that this entire story so far has been unbetaed and unedited, and even though the I'm almost done with this one, I have a couple more ExR fics lined up, so if anyone is willing to take the job, please hit me up.


	9. The Next Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait and I apologize even more for the content of this chapter. I feel like this deserves even more warnings for alcoholism, death, abuse, blood, etc.

     Grantaire stumbled to the couch and collapsed, but managed to keep all the wine in the bottle, he had just had the carpets cleaned after all, didn’t want to stain them that quickly. He fumbled for the remote on the coffee table and turned on the news while drinking more wine.

 

      “ _Bon soir_ *, today is February 16 and there’s been a major--” Grantaire heard the news anchor’s voice fade away. February 16. He scrambled up and hurried over to the calendar he kept on his fridge. February 16. He checked the date on his phone. February 16. February 16.

  
      How could he forget?

 

 

_Fifteen Years Ago_

     The sirens wailed and Grantaire though he could feel the noise ripping through his ear drums. His heart was pounding a steady beat, too steady. His heart should be racing. Why wasn’t it racing?

  
     Grantaire walked away from the police officers question his father who was pretending to be distraught. The bastard even managed to throw on some fake tears. Grantaire didn’t look at him. He just walked to the gurney covered with a white sheet. The medic was filling out paperwork on a clipboard.

  
     Grantaire stood at the side of his mother. ( _No. Not mama, anymore. Meat._ ) He lifted the sheet to look at her ( _it_ ). They closed her eyes. They were blue-- just like Grantaire’s.

  
     “Hey! Kid! You can’t do that!” the medic shouted, leading Grantaire away.

  
     As he was being pulled back, he stared at the body. When the sheet fell it left his mother’s right eye uncovered. He looked at her, and thought, without knowing why ( _because it’s not mama anymore, it’s just a body_ ), _I won’t forget you_.

  
      It was February 16, and it started snowing as Grantaire looked out the window at the ambulances and the dead body that was not his mother any more.

 

 

_The Present_

     Grantaire stumbled to his liquor cabinet. He shoved aside empty bottles, throwing them to the floor where they shattered. He found the full bottles and pulled them out and sank down to the floor. The glass shards surrounding him stabbed into his skin, but he just pulled them out and threw the bloody pieces at the wall.

  
     He drank.

          One bottle.

  
               Two bottles.

  
     He threw up.

  
                    Three bottles.

  
      The room was spinning and everything was blurry.

  
      He went to grab a fourth bottle.

  
      The room tossed him around.

  
      He grabbed on to the fridge.

  
     His hands slipped and he fell on glass shards.

  
     The calendar was in his hand.

  
    _February 16._

  
_His father._

  
_The man in the basement looked so much like him._

  
_If the room was spinning enough it was almost as if he_ was _him._

  
( _Un bouc émissaire*_ )

  
     Grantaire stumbled down the stairs. Enjolras had heard the noise upstairs and was scooted as far away from the door as his chains would allow him. Enjolras’ eyes were closed and his mouth was moving soundlessly, praying to a god he thought he didn’t believe in.

  
     Grantaire walked over to Enjolras, stumbling. He grabbed the man by his blonde hair and lifted so he was bent over, the chains on his wrists still holding him to the ground, but the man in front of him lifting his head so the chain around his neck choked him and cut off his silent prayers.

  
     Grantaire released him and Enjolras fell back down to the floor, gasping for breath. Grantaire kicked him in the ribs and Enjolras’ gasping became more pronounced, the only sound in the quiet concrete room.

  
     Grantaire set the bottle of wine on the small table. “Do you remember this night, Papa?” He kicked Enjolras again. “DO YOU REMEMBER?!” he yelled. Enjolras could only cough in reply. Grantaire lifted Enjolras’ face to be level with his own. Enjolras kept his eyes closed. “Look at me,” Grantaire demanded in a firm voice. Enjolras kept his eyes tightly shut. “LOOK AT ME, YOU BASTARD!” Enjolras opened his eyes, and although they were bloodshot and glassy with tears, if Grantaire were sober, he would have been able to see a mix of pity and passion and the fighting spirit that had kept him alive long enough to reach February 16.

  
     Grantaire still held Enjolras’ face in his hands and looked him in the eye. When he spoke, the hatred was evident in his voice. “Everyone used to say I looked just like mama. Do you see it, too? Is that why you turned to me when you killed her? IS THAT WHY YOU TRIED KILLING ME WHEN ONE TIME WASN’T ENOUGH?!” He bashed Enjolras’ head against the wall, forming a bloody bruise on his temple as he screamed in vain.

  
     Enjolras was crying now, the pain was too much and tears mixed with the blood that pooled on the floor. Grantaire straddled Enjolras and held his throat in his hands. He squeezed and threw Enjolras’ head against the floor with each syllable he spoke, “DID YOU HEAR ME? DID YOU KILL ME WHEN YOU KILLED HER? DID YOU MEAN TO, YOU FUCKING BASTARD?! WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY TO ME?!”

  
     Grantaire began to cry and with his tears, his grip on Enjolras’ throat only strengthened. Enjolras, through the haze produced with lack of oxygen, he grabbed at Grantaire’s wrists and dug his fingernails into the skin. Grantaire released him with a gasp of pain. Enjolras looked him in the eye and said slowly and calmly, “I have to say to you that I pity you and I am so, so sorry for what has been done to you. I understand now.”

  
     Grantaire was shocked. He stumbled off of Enjolras, who simply lay there. He scrambled back towards the stairs and ran up them, slamming the door behind him.

  
     Grantaire leaned against the wall and began to hyperventilate through his tears.

  
     Enjolras curled around himself and stared into the dark, breathing evenly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bon soir: good evening  
> Un bouc émissaire: A scapegoat
> 
> Let me just say that this was the hardest chapter for me to write. It took so long to get in the proper mindset for this. It was emotionally draining and exhausting, and so you guys better like it.
> 
> Ok, so I was reading this and realized a mistake in my dates, turns out in this chapter I made Grantaire 40, when in previous chapters he was 25. So I fixed that. These are the pains of not having a beta and writing at 3 AM. I apologize for that.


	10. Immediately After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added trigger warning: self harm

_Immediately After_

Grantaire ran to his shower, stripping off his clothes in the process and running into walls and doorjambs. He turned the shower to scalding hot and jumped in. The initial chill of not-yet-heated water stung him, then the water turned to burning. He savored the pain. It grounded him.

  
He was still hyperventilating. It was only when his nose started running that he realized he was crying, the water having burned his face. He hit his head against the shower wall and stayed there, his fingers trying to scratch lines into the tile. He fell down and sat in the tub, the water still burning, turning his body red.

  
The steam filled in the room. Breathing was almost impossible. Grantaire could feel himself black out momentarily, but a sudden increase in the temperature of water pulled him back.

  
He dug his fingernails into his scalp, pulling out a few strands of hair. He stayed seated until the hot water ran out and turned freezing.

  
He turned off the water and stepped out of the tub. He walked to his bed, still dripping wet and naked, and fell in. He pulled the blankets over his red and numb body and stared at the wall opposite.

  
He did not sleep.

 

_Morning_

Grantaire was aware of the sun streaming through his blinds. He looked down at his still unclothed torso. The blinds made the sun shine in stripes along his ribcage. He sat up and examined his body. Almost every limb was bright red-- at least pressure didn’t hurt.

  
He rolled out of bed mutely and walked to the bathroom, where, he remembered faintly, he had discarded his boxers. He tugged them on and winced as the elastic scraped against the burns on his thighs. He looked at his face in the mirror. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his nose was red and raw, his lips were chapped. He turned on the cold and water and splashed his face. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, sighing. At least he didn’t have a headache.

  
He turned and walked quietly to the kitchen. He mixed pancake batter and turned on the stove. He made four pancakes and slathered them with butter and syrup. He poured a glass of water.

  
He walked to the basement and threw on the lights. Enjolras groaned as he opened his eyes. He quietly sat up and looked tentatively at Grantaire.

  
His face was bruised. It looked like his nose was broken and a black eye was forming. There was still blood caked on the side of his head.

  
Grantaire silently handed him the plate of food and the glass of water. He sat across from him and looked mutely at the space just next to Enjolras’ ear. Enjolras ate quickly and then quietly set his plate down.

  
Grantaire looked at him then. Enjolras peered back, noticing the intensity in the brunet’s bloodshot eyes. “Did you mean it?” Grantaire asked in a voice so low that if Enjolras didn’t see his lips moved, he would have doubted that he spoke at all.  
“Did you mean it?” Grantaire asked again, louder this time. “When you said you pitied me? That you we sorry? That you understood?”

  
Enjolras nodded slowly, “Yes. Every word. You did not deserve what happened to you. No one does. You dealt with it the only way you knew how.” Grantaire had stopped listening after the affirmative yes. Now he just examined Enjolras with his eyes-- his hair, blonde and gleaming faintly in the light; his temple where blood was pooled, his work; his eyes, bright and blue and full of passion and pity and sorrow for the injustice Grantaire had endured his entire life; his cheekbones, sharp as his words, made sharper still by abuse and captivity; his lips, pink, moving minutely with his words.

  
Grantaire felt himself sit up and kneel. He felt himself move towards Enjolras. He saw his hands lift and cradle Enjolras’ face.  
“I’m not saying I’m happy to hel--” Enjolras halted when he realized Grantaire was crawling towards him. He felt Grantaire’s hands on his face, gentle, shaky, but sure. It was as soft as the touch he felt when Grantaire had dried his tears watching that news report.

  
Grantaire realized that Enjolras had stopped talking. He glanced down at his lips again before he felt himself connect them with his own.

  
The kiss was surprisingly soft, Grantaire’s lips barely brushed Enjolras’, his hands still held the blonde’s face. Enjolras was fisting the sides of his trousers. Grantaire pulled back slightly, the sides of their noses brushed. Grantaire felt Enjolras’ elevated breathing against his cheek. He opened his eyes and saw that Enjolras was staring at him doe-eyed. He pulled back to brush back the blond hair from blue eyes. Enjolras noticed a softness in his expression he only saw once before-- when he was talking about his last night homeless. Grantaire leaned back in and kissed the blond with more assurance. Enjolras released his fists and held his hands loosely at his sides. Grantaire felt Enjolras’ hand come to softly rest against his hip; he covered the hand with his own. Grantaire felt Enjolras lick gently at his bottom lip. That jerked him back to reality and he pulled back abruptly.

  
Grantaire’s eyes were wide with shock. He wiped his mouth with his hand and ran back up the stairs.

  
Enjolras combed his fingers through his hair and sighed. He began to softly cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I should say never, /ever/, do what Grantaire did with the shower thing. I can tell you from experience, it is dangerous, unhealthy, and not worth it. Also the burns on your skin are painful and it hurts to wear clothes.  
> One more chapter left. :( I'm sad to see the end of this fic, but I will be writing more if you want to read less morbid stuff. :)  
> My tumblr will probably give you better updates on exactly what I'm planning to write and stuff: http://dayofthenerd.tumblr.com/


	11. After

Grantaire rushed to his kitchen cabinets and started throwing his plates and cups around. They broke loudly on the ground. Enjolras, in the basement, could hear the breaking dishes and his breathing elevated in fear.  
Grantaire ran to his bedroom, ignoring the shards of glass that stabbed into his feet. He went to his nightstand, trailing blood into his room. He pulled open the door and grabbed the gun he hid inside. He really only kept it because one of his previous victims was packing and Grantaire had to disarm him. He checked to see if the gun was loaded. There were five bullets.  
He walked downstairs. Enjolras scrambled as far back as he could when he noticed the gun in Grantaire’s hands.   
Grantaire shot at the wall just above Enjolras’ head.  
Four bullets.  
Grantaire walked to the table where he kept his keys. He roughly unlocked the chains binding Enjolras. When he was free, Enjolras remained still for shock.  
Grantaire pointed the gun at Enjolras’ head. “UP! GET UP!” he roughly yelled.  
Enjolras obeyed.  
Grantaire stood behind him, aiming the gun at the blond head. “Walk up the stairs.” Enjolras remained still for shock.  
Grantaire shot at the floor.  
Three bullets.  
“I SAID MOVE!” he yelled again.  
Enjolras obeyed.  
He walked up the stairs quickly, Grantaire following. He walked into the hallway bathed in light. He blinked at the sunlight streaming in through the open windows. Grantaire walked in front of Enjolras, keeping the gun aimed at his head.  
Grantaire opened the front door. “Get out,” he whispered.  
Enjolras remained still.  
“Get out,” Grantaire repeated, louder.  
Enjolras remained still.  
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!”  
Grantaire shot at the wall.  
Two bullets.  
Enjolras obeyed. He walked quickly out of house, but stopped before the front steps. He turned to look at Grantaire.  
“The authorities will find you if you let me go,” he said firmly, but concern seeping through.  
“Does it look like I care?”  
Enjolras let that sink in. “No.” He shook his head. “No don’t do that. Turn yourself in with me. There’s help. We can help you.”  
“Then why didn’t you help me before?” Grantaire snarled.  
Enjolras didn’t have words, so he just grabbed Grantaire and kissed him. Grantaire gave in for a moment, kissing back passionately. He pulled away and slapped Enjolras and shoved him away. Enjolras stumbled backwards down the stairs.  
“Please, let me help,” he begged.  
“Leave me,” Grantaire said, reluctance slipping into his tone.  
Enjolras didn’t move. “Please,” he tried again.  
“LEAVE,” Grantaire yelled.  
He shot at the steps.  
One bullet.  
Enjolras stumbled backwards.  
“Just leave. If you want to help me, leave me. Now,” Grantaire said firmly.  
Enjolras turned around and took a step. He stopped and turned back. Grantaire was leaning against the door post, head down, eyes closed.  
“I can’t do this,” Enjolras said.  
“There’s nothing you can’t do,” Grantaire said, eyes still closed, refusing to make eye contact. “Just leave me. Please.”  
Enjolras paused upon hearing the plea. He breathed deeply as he closed his eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”  
“Leave.”  
Enjolras took a step. Grantaire opened his eyes and watched him walk slowly away.  
Grantaire lifted the gun slowly to his mouth. He wrapped his lips around the barrel.  
He stared, unmoving at the form of Enjolras, silhouetted by the sun.  
He breathed in.  
He pulled the trigger.  
The last bullet.

Enjolras heard the last resounding gunshot. He closed his eyes, and let out a heavy breath. He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was hyperventilating, keeping his eyes closed.  
He didn’t want to open them.  
He didn’t want to go back.  
He didn’t want to risk having to look into Grantaire’s dead eyes.  
He couldn’t.  
And so he stayed where he was until he couldn’t cry any more.

He stood shakily. He walked slowly back to humanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'est fini, my loves. It's been a pleasure writing for your twisted minds. I also did some research and discovered that Grantaire has Lima Syndrome.  
> I actually want to write a screen play version of this (which may or not actually get made) but I have a lot of ideas for it, and if anyone actually wants me to make it, just tell me.  
> My tumblr: dayofthenerd.tumblr.com this is probably the best place for updates on what I'm planning on writing and also for the few moments I wax poetic about my favorite gay revolutionaries.  
> I'm also already planning the next ExR fic I'm going to write (and I have a beta for it! demonsonthemoon.tumblr.com check her out). It's going to be much happier, don't worry.  
> Well this has been a long note. Thank you for your dedication to this fic. I love you all.


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So someone requested an epilogue (and because it literally only takes one request and I'm writing in .02 seconds) so I wrote this.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Five Years Later_

 

It was February 17.  Combeferre ran his fingers through Enjolras’ hair as the blonde sealed a letter, addressed only to R ( _That’s all I know about his name.  Only what he signed his art with_ ).  Combeferre gave up wondering why Enjolras did this every year when the third time he yelled at the man, it ended in him sobbing into Combeferre’s shoulder and muttering something like, “I couldn’t help him.”

 

Every year, Enjolras would write a letter to R on the day of his death telling him what he had done, what had happened, how much he regrets not stopping him.

 

_R,_

_It’s been one year.  I wanted you to know that after I heard the final shot I cried and couldn’t move.  You may have kidnapped me and tortured me, but you changed me for the better more than anything._

_My parents made me go into therapy after I got back.  The therapist says I have Stolkholm syndrome.  I don’t think it’s a syndrome though.  I just can’t blame you for what you did, not with your past._

_I’m back at university now.  The protests are going well, I thought you should know.  I know you’d say they don’t make a difference, but I’ll prove you wrong._

_Every day I regret not stopping you.  But I don’t think I would have been able to.  I don’t think that’s what you wanted.  I can’t say I miss your basement, but I believe in another life, we would’ve been good friends._

_-E_

_R,_

_I’m about to finish my degree in a few weeks.  I think I’m going to go on to graduate school after this.  I know you wouldn’t approve; maybe one day you will._

  
_You inspire me to work harder every day.  I won’t let anyone else go through what you had to.  You don’t believe me, but maybe you’ll believe_ in _me._  


_I still wish you would’ve turned yourself into the police instead.  I hate that I can’t go back in time and change that.  You didn’t deserve that.  You were a good man, on the inside._

_No one believes me when I say that._

_They don’t have to.  I know who you are._

_-E_

_R,_

_I got interviewed a few weeks ago by the news.  You would’ve liked the interview.  Combeferre and Courfeyrac said I did very well.  I wish you could’ve seen it.  I think it might have even given you hope._

_I’ll never know._

_No one understands why I write these.  It’s been three years, but you’re still with me.  I don’t think you’ll ever leave.  I just want to give you the hope you were never given before.  Maybe I can do that._

_Maybe._

_I’ll try._

_-E_

_R,_

_I finished my masters.  I’m working in a homeless shelter now, but I hope to start my own organization soon. I still sometimes see your face._

_At the shelter I see the hopelessness of some of these people.  They remind me of you.  I try to give them hope.  I always tell them I once knew a man who couldn’t believe, who couldn’t hope.  I tell them that he found belief and hope and love and that he inspires me every day.  I tell them he found peace._

_I can’t tell them that peace was found at the end of a gun barrel, though._

_It doesn’t feel like you died.  Not even after four years._

_-E_

_R,_

_I started my own organization.  I called it “Les Amis de l’Abaisées.”  Remember that?  You called me that.  I didn’t forget.  It’s a home for people escaping abusive situations.  You would’ve liked it, I think._

_It’s nice.  We provide food and shelter.  We even have a resident therapist.  We call him Joly.  You would’ve liked him._

_I feel like this is what I was meant for._

_I feel like this is what was meant to happen when you kidnapped me._

_I have your drawings hanging on the walls.  People love them.  They would’ve loved you._

_Like I did._

_People still don’t understand why I do this._

_They don’t have to._

_-E_


	13. Alternate Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So someone also requested an alternate ending. I assumed they meant they wanted these little assholes to have a happy ending, so I made them as happy as this fic will let them be.

He walked up the stairs quickly, Grantaire following. He walked into the hallway bathed in light. He blinked at the sunlight streaming in through the open windows. Grantaire walked in front of Enjolras, keeping the gun aimed at his head.

  
Grantaire opened the front door. “Get out,” he whispered.

  
Enjolras remained still.

  
“Get out,” Grantaire repeated, louder.

  
Enjolras remained still.

  
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

  
Grantaire shot at the wall.

  
Two bullets.

  
Enjolras obeyed. He walked quickly out of house, but stopped before the front steps. He turned to look at Grantaire.

  
“The authorities will find you if you let me go,” he said firmly, but concern seeping through.

  
“Does it look like I care?”

  
Enjolras let that sink in. “No.” He shook his head. “No don’t do that. Turn yourself in with me. There’s help. We can help you.”

  
Grantaire sighed. The gun in his twitched, almost like he wanted to lower it. His head shot up and his grip on the gun strengthened. “No,” he said firmly.

  
Enjolras moved quickly, and pushed the gun to the side. A shot fired.

  
One bullet.

  
Enjolras pried the gun out of Grantaire’s hands. He threw it aside. “No. I won’t let you do this. You can’t do this.”  
Grantaire’s arms fell. He dropped his head onto Enjolras’ shoulder and sobbed.

  
“Come with me. There’s a world outside your doors. You can be free from all this,” he gestured at the empty bottles littered around the living room. “Come with me.”

  
Enjolras felt Grantaire nod against his shoulder. Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire and hugged him tightly.  
“We need your car keys,” he said into Grantaire’s hair.

  
Grantaire turned and grabbed them from the kitchen counter.

  
“Can you drive?”

  
Grantaire nodded.

  
Enjolras led him to where he thought the garage was. Grantaire sat behind the wheel and Enjolras took the passenger seat. Grantaire started the ignition. Enjolras grabbed his hand and held it tightly.

  
Grantaire drove in silence. Whenever Enjolras noticed that he was about to lose it, he squeezed his hand and gave him an encouraging smile.

  
They pulled into the police station. Enjolras exited the car and opened the door for Grantaire. “C’mon,” Enjolras whispered, taking Grantaire’s hand again and pulling him from the car.

  
He led him into the police station. The woman at the front desk yelped at the sight of both of them, standing up. The police were all on alert; some already had their guns out, others were waiting, prepared to make a quick-draw if necessary.

  
Grantaire looked at the woman, and said resolutely, “I’m here to turn myself in. My name is Grantaire, also known as The Skoll Murderer, The Glass Blower, The Normandy Butcher, The Terror of Nice, and The Paris Menace. I have killed fifty-three men and I want to stop and I want help.”

  
Only Enjolras detected the hint of hope in his voice. The blond squeezed Grantaire’s hand a little tighter, hiding a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Enjolras' persuasion was totally not based off "There's A World" from Next to Normal. Nope. Definitely not.
> 
> *it wassss*
> 
> Also I changed my tumblr URL to montparn-assbutt.tumblr.com to match my maturity level. If you want updates on the writing of my fics, my poetry, my stupid life choices, etc. head over there.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the A.E. Housman poem "To my Comrade, Moses J. Jackson, Scoffer at this Scholarship."  
> The name "Skoll Murderer" came after a good hour of research into various myths. I finally settled on this one from the good ol' Vikings.


End file.
